Catalysis
by Aenisses Thai
Summary: Castiel walks into a trap meant for Dean and Sam, spurring a series of increasingly violent reactions from all involved. Eventual slash m/m interactions. Please note rating change to "M".
1. Chapter 1

**Spoiler warning:** Spoilers for events through Season 5, Episode 14 (My Bloody Valentine)

**Warnings:** non-consensual sexual touching/molestation, abuse, harsh language

**Genre:** slash (male/male)

**Author note:** I do not warn for character death in any of my stories, since I consider it a plot spoiler. If character death is an emotional trigger for you, I urge you to avoid my work. Thank you for understanding.

**Disclaimer:** All characters from Supernatural are the intellectual property of Eric Kripke, Warner Bros. Television, and Kripke Enterprises. I make no profit from this fanfiction.

**Dedication:** This story has been written for Pledge-a-thon Charity Round I, and is dedicated to Here4Castiel for sponsoring this fic with her generous donation to Misha Collins's UNICEF page for Haiti Earthquake Relief. All links are listed on my author page.

/-/-/

**Chapter One.**

At the first touch of the binding spell gliding corpse-cold over his grace, he presses a button and sends his pre-typed message into the ether.

Now all he can do is pray (_Father, keep them safe_), although what good is prayer when the supplicant has little hope of being heard?

/-/-/

The small triangles of pancake are absently placed in precise stacks, forming miniature monuments stranded in a sea of tacky syrup. Talk show psychologists would call this behavior evidence of a troubled mind displaying traces of obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Dean calls it Nucking Futs.

"Sam, for fuck's sake!"

His brother startles, the fork in his Gigantor hand making short work of his carbohydrate Lego set. "Uh, sorry."

Dean snatches his plate away and scrapes the sticky mess into the trash. "Yeah, you're gonna be even sorrier, 'cause it's your turn to do the breakfast dishes. Now shut up and eat." He shoves a bowl of cereal in front of Sam, followed by the milk carton.

"Look, I'm not really in the mood—"

"Don't bother finishing that sentence, 'cause I don't give a good goddamn what you're in the mood for. You're gonna eat something for breakfast or else I'll—" He pauses, the childhood threat of '_shove it down your throat with a broom handle'_ suddenly losing all humor after their experience with Twinkie Man two weeks ago. Yeah, no.

"—or else," he finishes weakly. He musters up as much brotherly tenderness as he can. "Sam, you gotta eat. You look like shit."

Sam snorts. "Yeah, thanks. You too."

Dean knows it's true, knows that the dark circles under his eyes run a close second to the raccoon rings around Sam's bleak gaze. Thing is, he's not stuck looking at his own miserable mug. On the other hand, if he has to keep confronting the gaunt hollowness etched across Sam's bony features, he's gonna volunteer his brother for hosting a Saturday afternoon monster movie marathon.

"Still prettier than you any day, Sasquatch." He pours his own bowl of cereal, drowns it in milk, and takes a huge bite. _Teach by example_, John had always told him (_and isn't it funny that he now thinks of his dad as John ever since Michael stared out of his father's eyes?)_ The cereal tastes like ashes in his mouth, but he keeps going until Sam finally relents and takes his own bite.

Dean picks up the newspaper, pretending to be absorbed in Sioux Falls' recent crime wave of three car break-ins while making sure that Sam eats at least half his cereal. He can tell from Sam's hunched shoulders that his brother knows he's watching him, but they're just going to keep acting normal, chewing their cardboard-tasting breakfast until they achieve true normality, or one of them drops. Right now, Dean doesn't care which.

Bobby wheels past them in a rush, thumping against cabinets and slamming doors as he searches for something.

"Coffee's already on," Dean says, and gets only a grunt in reply. Bobby seems to sense Dean's stare, because he turns away to rummage in another cabinet, but not before Dean has caught a glimpse of his face.

He looks just as bad as the two of them—pale, with bloodshot eyes glaring from beneath his hat brim—and that's fucking weird. Dean knows it hasn't been easy hosting a demon-blood detox session for the past two weeks, but Bobby had seemed the one normal, functioning person among them. Well, Bobby and Cas, if you didn't count Cas's slight increase in broodiness, probably unnoticeable to anyone but Dean.

Now that he thinks about it, he recalls the sound of Bobby's wheels squeaking in his downstairs bedroom throughout the past two nights, while Dean tried to divide his time between watching over Sam, who had finally moved to the upstairs bedroom, and blunting his thoughts with a bottle of JD.

He decides to tackle the situation with his usual slick, diplomatic skill. "What's with the sleeplessness, Bobby?"

The old hunter hesitates for a fraction of a second before resuming his rummaging. "None of your damn business."

Yeah, that went well.

Dean flips the newspaper back up while keeping an eye on Bobby, looking for another opening gambit.

Luckily, Sam has roused himself from dark contemplation of his cereal bowl long enough to take notice of his surroundings. "Hey, have you guys talked to Castiel lately? I remember him hanging around when I first got out of the—when I first got out, but I haven't seen him for the past couple of days."

Bobby outright freezes in his chair, stopping Dean mid-breath as he's about to explain about the angel helping Rufus with a case. "What's going on here, Bobby?" He keeps his tone even and controlled despite the fact that everything inside him is ratcheting up to Red Alert levels.

Now the tension in the room is so strong that even Sam drops his spoon and stares. "Guys?"

Bobby wheels over to join them at the table with all the enthusiasm of a man going for a root canal. He removes his hat, runs his hand through his hair, and replaces the hat before placing his palms flat on the table. "Man's word is a man's word," he mutters into his beard.

Dean already feels his muscles bunching, but Sam clamps down hard on his forearm. "Yeah, we get that," Sam says mildly. "Dad and you pounded it into our heads. But you also taught us something that's even more important: you said we had to trust our gut. So I'm thinking—if you haven't been sleeping, maybe it's because your gut's telling you something you don't want to hear. But me and Dean need to hear it…please, Bobby."

Bobby exhales slowly, still staring at his hands. "I didn't ask for any of this. Wife gone, no kids; figured at least I got no one to worry about but myself. But then you two come along…" He glances up at them, his eyes shadowed with emotion. "And you got all the powers of Heaven and Hell gunning for you, 'cause you idjits can't do nothing by halves. The last goddamn thing I need is yet another one of you to give me gray hairs, but that's just what—" a choked sound emerges from his throat.

Dean's not sure what he wants to do: shake Bobby? Scream in his face?

Thankfully, Sam steps in again, his voice still low and soothing. "Okay, Bobby. All right. But you've got to tell us what happened to Castiel."

"Rufus." The voice is harsh with emotion, and it takes Dean a moment to realize it just came from his own mouth. "You said Rufus called for help with a case. Or was that a lie?"

Bobby flinches under the accusation. "Not all of it. Rufus called, all right, but he was just giving me a heads-up. Weird sort of happenings over in Cheyenne County, far southwest corner of Nebraska. Seemed like a poltergeist at first, then more like a shapeshifter, and finally like a witch. Thing was, everything about it had the hallmarks of cases you boys solved years ago. Rufus said it smelled wrong to him. I figured it was a trap, trying to lure you boys in. Your angel thought the same thing."

He scrubs his hands wearily over his face. "The only good thing about this latest Horseman crap was that you two were out of commission for awhile, so you couldn't take the bait. Your angel made me give my word I'd keep you boys out of it, then the damn fool goes traipsing over to see what's up. Told him to keep in touch by phone, but this is the last message he sent me, two nights ago already."

Bobby pushes his cell over to Dean, who snatches it up to read the text message.

_It is as we suspected._

_I depend upon you to keep them far from here._

_When all is done, tell him I'm sorry._

_/-/-/_

"_Sorry,"_ Dean growls, shoving another belt of rock salt cartridges into the trunk of the Impala. "I'll show you _sorry_, you fuckbrained son of a bitch! When I get my hands on you, I'm plucking every damn feather out of your wings and shoving them so far up your ass, you'll be coughing goose down for a year!"

A long shadow falls across him in the slanting rays of morning sun. "Here," Sam hands him Ruby's knife in a sheath. "Do you want me to throw my duffle in the trunk or backseat?"

"Backse—whoa, wait! You can fucking forget it; you're not coming."

"Like hell I'm not." Sam stalks around the Impala and pulls open the rear passenger door, batting away Dean's grabs at his duffle bag.

"Sam, I mean it! You're in no shape to go anywhere right now, and besides," Dean glares at the stubborn set of his brother's jaw, "you'll be nothing but a liability to me. I got no time to keep an eye on you while I'm trying to pull Cas's feathered ass out of the fire." He means the words to sting, and they do—at least, they're stinging his throat even as he hurls them with intent to wound. Sam might be hurt by his brother's mistrust but, Dean figures, better hurt than dead.

Unfortunately, Sam is refusing to follow the script. Instead of pulling an emo bitchface with downturned mouth and teary eyes, he merely shrugs off the insult and gets in the front passenger seat, slamming the door shut behind him and cranking the window down. "You might as well give it up, because I'm not falling for your shit; I've got just as much right to go after Cas as you do. He's my friend, too. And you can take that look off your face, because I'm not saying that me and Cas are as close as the two of you, but the guy has risked his life a few times for me. I figure I owe him one…or two or ten, for that matter."

Dean makes one last attempt, leaning in the passenger window to jab a finger at Sam. "You do realize that whatever trap he's caught in was meant for us, right? What makes you so sure that Lucifer isn't sitting there waiting for you with a tape measure and a smile?"

"I don't know what's waiting for us there. Could be Lucifer, could be Horsemen, could be angels, the biggest dicks of all. All I know is what a smart dude once told me: we're stronger together than apart."

Dean knows he's lost this battle, but he doesn't have to be gracious about it. "Fine. Just don't come crying to me when the Devil's got his dick up your ass and a chokehold on your soul."

"And thank you once again for a lovely mental image. Now go get the coordinates from Bobby so we can hit the road already."

"Hey, I thought I told _you_ to—"

"No." Sam is glaring at him, and fuck if he hasn't been taking lessons from Cas on how to give the Smiteful Stare of Eternal Wrath. "You're going into that house and talking to Bobby, because he feels like shit for letting Cas get himself into this mess."

"'s'not his fault. Damn angel has a thick skull and stubborn streak a mile wide," Dean mutters. "Bobby knows I don't blame him."

"Then it won't hurt for you to actually say that out loud, to his face. No, shut up and listen for once. In case you haven't noticed, things are ramping up on the Apocalyptic scale, and every time we drive out of here, it could be the last time Bobby ever sees us. So we're not leaving him with any baggage to blame himself for, and we're not going with words left unsaid. I already said my piece to him, and now it's your turn. I'm not letting you back in the car until you're done."

Dean slaps the roof of the Impala in aggravation and strides back toward the house. Since when has Sam become such a fatalistic bastard? That's _his _job, damn it! All the same, he has to admit that Sam has a point, so with every step he takes toward the house, he allows the memories of Bobby and everything he's done for them flow through his mind. By the time he reaches the forlorn figure sitting near the bowls of disintegrating cereal, he doesn't have to fake the waves of genuine affection and bittersweet regret that color his voice.

"Hey, Bobby."

/-/-/

The tainted essence curls around him, making his nerves tingle with revulsion even as it drags him back to consciousness. It is a scent-taste of corruption, the sickly sweet of rotting flesh barely covering a core of sulfur and hellfire. He forces his features to remained relaxed, trying to conceal his altered awareness from the captor who waits just beyond his closed eyelids.

"Wakey-wakey, angel-cakey. Mama wants to see those baby blues."

As he recognizes those poisoned-honey tones, a familiar feeling sweeps through him: not heavenly wrath but earthly aggravation, sounding like Dean's voice in his head as it growls, _'What's dead should stay dead.' _Giving a mental shrug, he opens his eyes.

Were he human, he might find pleasure in the symmetrical features before him: wide, sparkling eyes, red lips parted in a smile, a cloud of dark hair. However, he is something more than human, and he can see the creature's true form writhing beneath its stolen outer shell. Abomination. Monstrosity.

"Demon."

Her smile widens. "There you are. I was beginning to think you might never wake up, and I was getting worried. Not that an angel death could be anything but good, but you know…" she wrinkles her nose, "…the smell. Impossible to get out of the upholstery."

His eyes dart around, taking in his surroundings as she revels in the sound of her own voice. Contrary to her words, there's no furniture in sight; it is an empty room, its cheap tiled floor coated with dust, long grooves denoting the former presence of cubicle walls. He remembers it now: the abandoned office building in the half-deserted town, darkened windows like empty eyes in the twilight. She hasn't moved him far, then, from the entrance where she had sprung her trap. Crude sigils drawn in blood line the walls, their lines rudimentary and amateurish but good enough to hold him in this place.

He doesn't like the dim glow fading from the dark liquid designs, the implication that an angel died to build this trap. Pain suddenly radiates outward from his shoulders, and he tries tugging his arms down from their spreadeagled position. It doesn't work; the cold burn of bloodiron holds his wrists fast to the wall.

"Give it up, Clarence. You won't be leaving here anytime soon, not until I say so, which will be…oh, never." She approaches with a casual, hip-swinging gait until she's inches from his face, the same as the last time they'd met. He finally understands Dean's objections to invasions of his personal space. She fits her hips against his in a way he knows would be intimate if they had been two humans.

"There now," she purrs, "so much nicer than the last time. No weapons you can use against me, no place we have to be." She grips his waist and rocks against him, her mouth parting in a feral grin. "So what's up, angel? Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?"

"It's a cell phone." He frowns. "Why would I be glad to see you?"

She puffs out a small sigh (_a breath of sulfur_) and releases him. "I forgot. Just my luck to snare the poster boy for Angelic Erectile Dysfunction. Good thing the Winchester boys are on their way, or I might be forced to torture you out of sheer boredom. Though that's still a possibility."

A prickle of dread lifts the hair at the back of his neck, and he consciously suppresses a shiver, noting yet another weakness of this form. It isn't the thought of torture that frightens him, but the demon's certainty that Dean and Sam will walk into this trap. He'd taken rushed precautions to keep them out of this, but he doesn't know if he'd succeeded. "What makes you say that?"

"Torture? It's a demon thing, yanno. Oh, you mean the Winchesters." Her tongue slides out to lick at the corners of her smile. "You've no idea how long you've been unconscious, have you? By now, the Winchesters will be missing their pet. They're probably already tacking up Lost Angel signs and checking with animal control; it's only a matter of time before they show up here. And we'll be waiting for them, Clarence—just you and me."

He lowers his gaze to hide his gleam of hope. "Lucifer won't be here, then."

Her smile falters. "My Father…my Father is busy." She pushes away from him, pacing the office floor as if fascinated by the clack of her high-heeled boots against the dusty tiles. Pivoting to face him again, she juts her chin in defiance. "That's why we're here. I want to give him a present: his true vessel all wrapped up in a bow, and the Michael Sword on a platter. And you—you're just the bait, cloudhopper. Although perhaps my Father will give you to me as a plaything. My dogs and I could use some downtime."

So Lucifer wasn't behind this trap. It doesn't surprise him, considering the clumsiness of the sigils; Lucifer would've had him balanced between delicate agonies, drawing out his grace one shining, screaming thread at a time. However, even the equivalent of a crude chain and padlock is enough to hold him in place; he mustn't underestimate this demon. The bloodiron is a clever touch.

He tilts his head to match the angle of her defiance. "I thought I'd killed you with the fire circle."

Her laughter is harsh, as sharp and grating as shattering glass. "Don't you remember what I told you last time?" She gets back up in his face and reaches down between his legs. "You're nothing but an impotent…sap."

She punctuates each word with a vicious squeeze of his scrotum, sending shrills of agony racing up his spine. He tries to separate himself from the pain of his physical form but only succeeds in reducing his reaction to rasps of indrawn breath.

It's enough to satisfy her, and she releases him. "Hurts, doesn't it? Well, payback's always a bitch." She lifts her shirt to expose a thick line of scarred, puckered flesh across her midsection. "Look at what you've done. Bikini season is ruined for me."

He fights to regain control of his breathing. "Thought…you could heal your…hosts."

"So did I. Imagine my surprise when that angel fire burned right into me—the me inside, not this snivelling meatsuit. I was forced to abandon ship for a while, and guess what? This poor little girl had to deal with third degree burns all on her own." She purses her lips in mock sympathy. "She cried for hours, you know. Cried and cried, not only because of the pain, but also at the thought that an angel would do this to her. I have to say, her faith in you winged wusses and your deadbeat dad is just about…" she holds her thumb and forefinger a half-centimeter apart. "It's almost a mercy I took her over again."

"I am not Dean Winchester."

She lifts an eyebrow. "O-kay, that's a bit out of left field, but I'm game. What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I don't hold myself responsible for," he pauses to remember the exact phrasing Dean had used, "the shit you evil bastards are wreaking on the world."

She crows in delight and claps her hands. "Very good, Clarence! You're getting more human by the second; got the lingo down and everything! It's a real pleasure watching you fall. By the way, how _is _that falling thing working out for you?"

"How is the 'rising up to heaven' thing working for you?"

"We're getting there. My Father makes progress each day, and once I give him his true vessel, it will only be a matter of dotting the i's and crossing the t's." She punctuates each letter with a poke in his chest.

He regards her silently. Less than a minute passes before she turns her back on him, fidgeting under his measured gaze, her movements more erratic and nervous than those of Dean at his most combative. She must hate silence, he realizes. He remembers Hell, the shrieking chaos of the torture chambers almost preferable to the pitch-black yawn of forgotten caverns and tunnels, empty of light, air, sound—except for the occasional drip of moisture from the blood-slimed walls.

He carefully makes his opening move. "So you enjoy peace. You are yearning for silent communion with other souls."

She barks out a laugh. "Hardly! That binding spell must've hit you harder than I thought and scrambled your underweight brain. Are you even seeing what's standing in front of you? I'm a demon, you know: pleasures of the flesh are my thing, not soulful meditation." She runs her hands over her host body's breasts, then down over her hips. "Give me a thick steak, a giant margarita, a warm body to burrow into, male, female, willing, unwilling…I'm not fussy."

He nods knowledgeably. "Lights and music. Las Vegas."

"You got it, Clarence. Sin City. Money, glitz, food for every appetite, no matter how twisted."

"Las Vegas is not in Heaven."

She snorts. "Does the term 'No duh' mean anything to you?"

"Hollywood is not in Heaven. Nor Paris nor New York nor…" he concentrates a moment, "Bora-Bora."

"Are all cloudhoppers as dim as you, or are you a special case? Honestly, angel, I know you're proud of your mad fifth-grade geography skillz, but you're getting tedious."

"All of these places are on Earth. Human-run, human-owned. Heaven is on a different plane. Eternal peace, eternal belonging, eternal…" he lowers his voice, "quiet."

He imagines he sees a slight shudder wrack her frame, but he can't be certain. The position he's pinned in is wearying, the bloodiron sapping his strength, and he has to blink several times to refocus his eyes. When his vision finally sharpens, she is up in his face, her eyes flashing.

"It doesn't matter. Once my Father takes us back to Heaven, he will make it into everything we want it to be. Not the holy roller pablum-bland version you winged eunuchs knew."

He tilts his head and does his best imitation of Dean Winchester's smirk. "Heaven is not a resort that needs remodeling. In any case, Lucifer has already shown his design preferences in his own kingdom: Hell. Everything you think you desire is on Earth—an Earth he intends to eradicate, as he intends to eradicate everything that is or ever was human. This is what Crowley fears: not only destruction of his preferred home, but also destruction of him and his fellow demons."

"You're a liar!" she hisses. "My Father would never hurt us; we are his favored children, his—"

"He is _not_ your father." His voice cracks like a whip, and glass shatters in all the window frames. "You are not even the same species. Lucifer is a fallen angel. You originated from humankind, and as such, will be destroyed by him. Ask yourself this, demon: why are you here alone? What happened to your fellow demons who were with him in Carthage?"

She shakes her head slowly, backing away from him. "You don't understand. They were sacrifices, necessary for the ritual to summon Death. He told me he didn't want to do it, but—"

"He crushed them like insects, without thought or hesitation, the same way he will crush you. You mean nothing to him." He leans forward, and drops his voice to a confidential whisper. "You. Are. Nothing."

"Shut up! Shut your stupid, lying mouth!" She lunges at him and slaps his face hard, making his head snap to his right. Were he human, her demon strength would've knocked his head clean off. As it is, the pain reverberates through his skull, and he tastes blood on his lips.

He turns his head back toward her and spits at her feet.

"This was a mistake," she whispers, her voice trembling with rage. "Letting angels talk is always a mistake. I should've cut out your tongue while you were still unconscious, but no, I had to be nice, and look where it's got me. Now you have to be punished." She laughs under her breath, an unhinged sound brushed with madness. "But ordinary pain doesn't work on you martyr types, does it? I'm going to have to get creative, and for that, I need a different host."

She grabs his jaw, forcing it open to sweep her tongue around the inside of his mouth, licking at the blood on his lips. He struggles and tries to bite her, but her grip is too tight. Finally she releases him, shoving his head back so that it bangs against the wall. "Patience, angel. It may take me a little while to find the proper host, but I'll be back before you know it. In the meantime, you can amuse yourself with pondering the top twenty ways to defile an angel. There will be a quiz, or should I say," her mouth curves cruelly, "a practical exam."

She turns and strides away, and he stands listening until the sound of her heels fades into the distance.

After fifteen minutes of struggling with his bonds, even going so far as to force thin strands of his grace between his wrists and the bloodiron, he slumps in exhaustion. Goading the demon was one of those Dean Winchester, it-seemed-like-a-good-idea-at-the-time type plans. The good part is that it has succeeded insofar as buying him some extra time to find a way to warn Dean and Sam away from this place. The bad part is…

He chooses not to think about the bad part.

Bowing his head, he gathers up the tattered remnants of his faith and begins to pray.

_/-/-/_

_To be continued_

_/-/-/_

_Author Note: (5-16-10) Sorry for the "false" story update alert. I had to edit and re-insert section breaks, since this site arbitrarily removed asterisk breaks from all fics. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Spoiler warning:** Spoilers for events through Season 5, Episode 14 (My Bloody Valentine)

**Warnings:** non-consensual sexual touching/molestation, reference to child abuse, extremely coarse language

**Genre:** slash (male/male); suspense fic

**Author note:** I do not warn for character death in any of my stories, since I consider it a plot spoiler. If character death is an emotional trigger for you, I urge you to avoid my work. Thank you for understanding.

**Disclaimer:** All characters from Supernatural are the intellectual property of Eric Kripke, Warner Bros. Television, and Kripke Enterprises. I make no profit from this fanfiction.

**Dedication:** This story has been written for **Pledge-a-thon Charity Round I**, and is dedicated to Here4Castiel for sponsoring this fic with her generous donation to Misha Collin's UNICEF page for Haiti Earthquake Relief. All links are listed on my author page.

.

**Chapter 2.**

.

It's been a few hours since they peeled out of Omaha, Nebraska, and Dean pushes his baby to over a hundred miles per hour, listening to her throaty growl while keeping a sharp eye out for speed traps. He's not as familiar with I-80 as he was with I-29, and he doesn't need to get stopped now, not when his pulse is jumping the way it is. It'd be too bad if some poor sucker of a state cop ended up with the Winchester knockout treatment just because tension is growing inside him with every degree the sun sinks lower in the sky.

Dean can't explain it, but he feels in his gut that time is running out, and he's not willing to spot a state trooper even the fifteen minutes it would take to write up a ticket. Not to mention having to explain what his brother is doing in the backseat with a microphone, a laptop, and a shitload of other electronic junk, boxes and warranty cards scattered across the leather.

A blur of motion at the side of the interstate catches his eye, and he swerves hard, barely missing the goddamn deer as it leaps across the road, today's winner in the Red Rover challenge against speeding steel monsters.

A solid clunk from the backseat interrupts the stream of Latin, accompanied by a heartfelt, "Fuck, Dean!"

"Sorry, princess, but it was either swerve, or drive across the rest of the state with Bambi in our grill—and I couldn't risk your girly tears if that happened."

"More like your girly tears if Bambi put a scratch on the Impala. Look, could you knock that off for a while? I have to re-record this entire verse if this thing has a snowball's chance of working."

"Yeah, ar'right," Dean mumbles, making a conscious effort to stop drumming his fingers against the dash. But it's hard, damn hard—he can't even listen to his tapes while Sam's working, 'cause it might mess up the recording.

"What if it's not demons?" he blurts out. "This plan won't be worth dick, then."

He hears Sam click off the mike. "If it's not demons, we'll deal. We'll just have to make it up as we go."

Dean can't help but flinch. The last time he heard those words, things ended up going to shit: Ruby, Sam, Lucifer making his grand entrance (_Cas dying_)…His dark thoughts are interrupted by a large hand settling heavily on his shoulder.

"It's a good plan, Dean." Sam's voice is soft and reassuring. "You did a good job thinking this up. It didn't even occur to me, and I'm the one with the techno geek experience."

"Yeah, well," Dean shrugs, hiding how Sam's praise affects him, "maybe I'm just sick of being outnumbered and outgunned all the time. But it's still down to you, College Boy. Make sure the magic boxes do what they're supposed to, or we'll have blown a half-hour in that fucking store for nothing. And if I never see another smiley Apple tech or hear about BluTooth ever in my life again, it'll be too soon."

"Don't knock 'em, Dean. This Garage Band app is freaking awesome."

"Okay, okay, just keep your geek-gasms to yourself. Bad enough I can't have my Zeppelin; I don't need to hear you panting and moaning in the backseat over your goddamn _apps."_

"Jerk," says Sam, but there's a hum of pleasure in his tone as he clicks through his new Macbook Pro.

"Bitch." With that, Dean presses the gas pedal and listens to the music of his baby as she roars down the open road.

/-/-/

The last slanted rays of daylight slide across the dusty floor, abandoning his corner of the room to the encroaching shadows. He recognizes the hollow feeling in his chest as dread, analyzing it even as it tightens its cold, skeletal grip on his heart. Angels are not supposed to know dread. They wage war, of course, as an act of obedience and sacrifice; there is no place for fear when following orders. Death is the end of existence, but it is also a glorious badge of honor. Those who fall in battle have their names sung for eternity by the heavenly host.

There will be no songs for him. There will be no glory in his manner of death. He knows the demon will make his death is as ignoble as possible, deconstructing and defiling his corpse until she renders it nigh unrecognizable.

Perhaps Dean will not recognize his corpse. Perhaps Dean will never find his corpse at all. It is a faint hope, the only one he has left. However, it's time to let all hopes fade from his mind, and prepare himself for his inevitable end.

Yet…he wishes he didn't have to die. Such a human thing, this wishing, wanting; it's a novelty acquired during his time on Earth that he intends to indulge in these last few hours of his life. He wishes he could have seen the face of his Father. (Only four angels have seen the face of God, and apparently, he feels he should have been the fifth. The sin of pride is a heady one.) He wishes he could have said proper goodbyes to his friends: Bobby and Sam and Dean. (_Especially Dean.) _He wishes he could be certain that they—

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching from the corridor outside the room. He gathers up his human hopes _(vulnerabilities_) and hides them in a corner of his heart, then lifts his chin, preparing to face death as a soldier of the Lord.

The door swings open. "Miss me?" the demon leers.

Castiel sets his stance as much as he can with his arms caught in the awkward, spread-eagled position, and stares coolly at the demon as it approaches him with heavy footsteps.

"How do you like my new host?" it asks, dropping a nylon satchel on the floor before running its hands provocatively down its chest, pausing at its crotch.

Castiel surveys the demon's form, noting that it is now housed in the body of a human male clad in a simple jacket, jeans, and sneakers. The man is slightly shorter than him but heavily muscled through the arms and chest, as if accustomed to subjecting his body to conflict in the form of sports. His light hair is short, cut close to the skull, reminiscent of Dean's preferred haircut. He hastily turns his thoughts away from that train of thought, and goes on the attack. "It's strange that you call the human your host, as if he had a choice. 'Rape victim' is a more appropriate term."

"Like you have room to talk. Calling your meatsuits 'vessels' doesn't change the way you holier-than-thou pricks fool the poor suckers into signing on for a joyride they can never escape."

The demon's words strike home, and he closes his eyes, breathing a brief prayer for the soul of Jimmy Novak, wherever he may be.

His response seems to delight the demon, who moves in until its sulfur-tainted breath curls against his skin. "Aw, don't be sad, Clarence. We're going to have some fun tonight." The creature's dark eyes flick toward the window, the amber glow of sunset fading beneath the darkening sky. "All night long, as long as we can make you last—um, I mean, make _it_ last. Freudian slip there."

The demon's lips curl in a mocking smile, thinner and wider than that of its last host but still recognizable. "Let me tell you a secret, angelcakes. I don't deny I've had my inventive moments in the past, but tonight is going to surpass anything I've ever done before. We are talking serious kink, and not just because of your slipshod halo. You see, I've found myself a doozy of a host this time. In fact, I've decided to timeshare the condo with him, so to speak."

Narrowing his eyes at the colloquialism, Castiel fixes on the word 'share.' "That's very un-demonic of you."

"Normally, yes, but there's something you don't know about Billy-boy here. He's a man after my own blackened heart, someone destined to join our ranks in the not-so-distant future. But why am I telling when I could be showing you instead? Clarence, meet your partner in pleasure for the evening, William 'Call me Billy' Thomsen."

The demon's smirk shifts, revealing a different expression: confusion, quickly followed by a rapid sizing up of the surroundings and the man strapped to the wall before him. A slight predatory gleam enters his gaze as he studies the restraints on the angel's wrists. "So, uh, hi," Billy says, grinning with lazy charm. "How are things going, Clarence? Kind of an old-fashioned name, if you don't mind me saying."

"It's not my name." Castiel stares at Billy, trying to see past the friendly exterior to the soul beneath, until—"Children!" he hisses, flinching back so hard that his head bangs against the wall behind him. "You prey upon—"

"Nuh-uh-uh." Billy waves a cautionary finger, still keeping his charming smile in place, although something dark unfurls within his eyes. "Don't you go getting all judgmental on me. I've never done anything to anyone that didn't agree to it, and I never messed with anyone that wasn't fully mature."

"Mature," Castiel repeats dully, trying to push away the mental image of a weeping young girl, two or three years younger than Claire Novak.

"Yeah, that's right. My stepdad and his buddies broke me in when I was eight. 'Little man' they called me, and so I was. I never touch anyone younger than that; I'm not a perv like those guys you hear about on the news." Billy abandons his pugnacious tone and reassumes his charming smile. "Look, we're sorta getting off on the wrong foot. You're not my usual type, but there's no reason we can't have fun together. There's something about you I like, and I can make it good for you, I promise." He leans in and tugs at Castiel's tie.

In a flash, Castiel jerks forward and smashes his forehead against Billy's, causing the man to fall back with a howl of pain. "Abomination!" he spits. "Defiler of innocence! You will suffer the eternal torments of the Pit, the agonies visited upon the damned souls of Sodom and Gomorrah!"

"Bastard!" snarls Billy, jumping to his feet and taking a swing at Castiel. His fist cracks against the angel's jaw, and he screams as a small, jagged piece of bone pierces through the back of his hand.

He suddenly freezes in place, cutting off his howls. An expression of calm disappointment slides over his features as he shakes out his hand, the bones moving smoothly back in place and skin knitting over the wound as the bloody contusion on his forehead fades away. "For crying out loud, Clarence, you just can't play nice with others, can you? I swear, all you winged pansies have stunted social skills to match your undersized—" The demon's black gaze turns inward. "Yeah, I saw. Stop your blubbering…yes, he's a bastard…yeah, even older than you think, but listen, what you see before you? That's Grade A prime untouched virgin…so you want out, huh. Sorry, Billy, but that's not a call you get to make. Now shut up and go to sleep."

The demon lets out a long, feminine sigh, and places thick-fingered hands on his hips as he saunters up to Castiel, staying just out of attack range. "Look at what you've done. Do you have any idea how long it took me to find him? Well, yeah, the number of hours I was gone, but that's not the point. Locating a genuine twisted human host isn't as easy as it looks, and now all of my lovely time-sharing plans have come to naught. I guess it's just vanilla defiling for you, angelcakes…unless, of course, I wake Billy to join in the grand finale…"

A slight scraping noise captures Castiel's attention, sounding as if it's coming from the ventilation shaft above his head. There's something purposeful in the sound, uncharacteristic of rodents scratching for food. However, it could still be a rat; he shouldn't let himself hope. All the same, he glares fiercely at the demon, willing it not to hear.

The demon laughs. "Finally, I get a response. But I know better than to trust you, so…" it lifts the host's jacket and fumbles at the belt, unclasping it and pulling the leather through its loops until the strap is freed. "Let's start with a little preventive bondage." It stoops and whips the leather around Castiel's legs, cinching it so that he can't lash out with a kick.

There's another faint scrape, this time from the cold air return vent across the room. The demon frowns as it cocks its head slightly, and—"So have you thought about what I said?" Castiel blurts out desperately. "About Lucifer and his plans for you?"

"I don't listen to lying angels that lie. Besides, the only plans you need to worry about are mine for you." The demon tugs at Castiel's tie until it comes undone, then wrenches at his shirt until it tears open down the middle, sending white buttons flying. Thick fingers prod and pinch at his pale skin. "Huh. Thought there was more to you than this. Someone needs to feed you up before you waste away to nothing—oops, too late. My bad." It grins at its own joke.

Castiel sets his jaw and looks past the creature, trying to ignore the way its fingers poke at his body, jabbing into his ribs hard enough to leave bruises. It suddenly occurs to him that the room is far too quiet; any small noise would be amplified in the relative silence. He lets out a hissing breath and bucks against his restraints. "Unhand me, hellspawn!" Privately, he thinks he sounds as fake and overdramatic as the heroes in those fantasy movies Sam likes to watch (and Dean likes to mock), but maybe the demon won't catch on.

It works; or at least the demon is amused. "Still feisty, huh, Wingnut? Maybe I'd better calm you down for a bit." It strides away to the satchel it left lying in the dust, then returns bearing a large knife with a wickedly curved blade. "You're carrying on like a girl, you know. Back in the day, about a century and odd change ago, human doctors had a name for it: hysteria. Not that you have the organ the condition is named after," the knife prods him just below his navel, "but the treatment is the same. Blood-letting." The knife flicks swiftly to his bound wrist, and a spray of blood spatters across the dusty floor as the demon steps back to observe its handiwork.

Castiel knows it would take the loss of nearly all of the blood in his body to significantly weaken him, but he sees no reason to clue the demon in on this fact. He struggles to free himself, breathing hard through his nose as if he can't get enough air, while glancing at the growing pool of blood at his feet. When it reaches almost a liter's worth, he lets himself sag in the restraints and rolls his eyes back.

"Oh, the drama," sighs the demon as it approaches him again. Castiel worries for a moment that his pretence may have gone too far, but the demon merely tears a strip of material from his shirt and binds up his wrist. "C'mon, Clarence, wake up now," slapping his face none too gently, "it's not going to be as much fun if you're not privy to the goings on. Wouldn't be a real party without you." Castiel doesn't reply, letting his head hang down as if unconscious.

"Fine," the demon growls at last, "guess I'll just get started anyway and wait for you to catch up." It pushes at the oversized trench coat until the bulk of the material slips off Castiel's shoulders, sagging down his back with the sleeves still caught at his elbows, and pushes the suit coat open in the same way. The creature leans forward and nips at his exposed chest, then bites down harder.

Castiel can't stop his muscles from twitching at the pain, and his assailant huffs laughter into his skin. "That's more like it. You taste so good, angel; I could just eat—you—up." It punctuates each word with a savage bite that draws blood.

Castiel jerks in pain, allowing his eyes to roll as if he can't get them to focus. Suddenly he feels hands unbuckle his belt, and it takes everything he has not to howl in outrage as the demon's hands slide beneath his trousers, exploring the most intimate parts of this body. He wants to writhe away, to bite and tear and burst out of his skin, smiting this creature into charred ashes for this obscene violation of his earthbound form. His muscles tense as he gathers the last remnants of his grace in what is probably a suicidal attack against the demon-cursed restraints, when—

—the demon's hands drop away as it sighs in disappointment. "Still nothing going on down there. Can't say I'm surprised, though, considering what I'm dealing with. This is why I switched hosts; an impotent sap like you might not be able to pitch worth a damn, but you can still catch, willing or not. Have to change the angle though."

To Castiel's shock, he feels the restraint snap off his right wrist. He's so taken aback by the unexpected opportunity that he almost allows the demon to turn his unresisting body to face the wall. Luckily, his battle instincts kick in, and he strikes with the swiftness of an archangel, hurling the demon across the room to crash through the wall at the far end, sending chunks of drywall caving into the opening. He yanks desperately at the remaining wrist cuff but it refuses to budge, so he stoops to unfasten the belt cinched around his legs, all the while keeping an eye on the wreckage. His legs now free, he goes back to attacking the bloodiron cuff, smearing his own blood across the metal in hopes of weakening its demon strength.

There is a thunk of falling drywall and a cloud of plaster dust, accompanied by an animal snarl. "Fucking bastard motherfucking _angel!"_ The demon reappears, blood trickling from its nose and mouth. "Think you're so fucking clever, don't you? You have no idea how soft I've been with you, but now I'm _done._ It's time for you to start bleeding for real." It stoops by the gym bag and brings out a long metal rod almost an inch in diameter, its surface pitted like the cuff that binds Castiel's wrist.

Castiel tries to get into a defensive posture, but the demon is on him in an instant, smashing the rod into his knees, his stomach, and finishing up with a blow to his cheek. His legs go out from under him, and the demon grabs him and spins him to the wall, smashing his face against the rough surface. It rips the coats from the angel's back, leaving them hanging only by their left sleeves as it locks the remaining restraint around his right wrist, hissing a litany of curses the entire time.

"Fucking bitch, I'm going to dish up your own personal serving of hell right here in this room! I'm going to make you beg for me to end you, but there isn't going to be any end to it, not until you're a broken, mewling piece of mindless flesh!" The demon grabs Castiel's hair and smashes his head against the wall before doing a full body slam against him. "Feel that, angel?" the demon breathes sulfur against his cheek as it thrusts against him. "That's the one thing these stupid meatsuits are good for: they understand violation of the body the way we understand violation of the soul. I'm going to make it hurt for you; I'm going to fuck your virgin ass until it's nothing but a bloody hole. I'm going to make you feel every tearing inch of this dick, and when I'm done, I'm going to go at you again with my knife."

The demon's arousal presses hard against his backside, sending a roiling wave of nausea through Castiel's being. It shouldn't be like this; this manner of torture shouldn't affect him any differently than a sword cut to his heart, but he's too deep in this body, and he can't fight back the human horror and loathing shrieking through his mind. Hope spirals away from him; whatever small sounds he thought he had heard before had nothing to do with rescue, because he's still stuck here facing the degradation the demon means to force upon him until it finishes him off for good.

Castiel knows it's the end for him, believes the demon's promises of reducing this flesh to broken mindlessness, so he takes his last chance to pray, whispering into the rough surface pressed against his cheek. "Father, into your hands I commend my soul and beg your protection for Dean and Sam—"

The demon snarls a laugh as it fumbles at the fly of his trousers. "Still praying to your pathetic deadbeat dad for those even more pathetic losers! Trust me, angel, by the end of this night, I'll have you cursing the day you ever laid eyes on Dean Winchester; hell, I'll have you cursing the day your father thought to make you!"

The door to the room explodes inward, flying off its hinges, and in the stunned, panting quiet is the sound of a shotgun being cocked, and a low growl of rage.

"Get your filthy hands off my angel, you bitch!"

_/-/-/_

_To be continued_

_/-/-/_


	3. Chapter 3

**Spoiler warning:** Spoilers for events through Season 5, Episode 14 (My Bloody Valentine)

**Warnings:** non-consensual sexual touching/molestation, reference to child abuse, extremely coarse language

**Genre:** slash (male/male); suspense fic

**Author note:** I do not warn for character death in any of my stories, since I consider it a plot spoiler. If character death is an emotional trigger for you, I urge you to avoid my work. Thank you for understanding.

**Disclaimer:** All characters from Supernatural are the intellectual property of Eric Kripke, Warner Bros. Television, and Kripke Enterprises. I make no profit from this fanfiction.

/-/-/

**Chapter 3.**

.

The demon slowly pulls away from Castiel, maneuvering so that the angel's body partially blocks it from the shotgun tracking its every move. "That's a strange thing to call me," it sneers. "Anyone can see I'm a man," it rezips its fly with an insolent flourish, "—much more than this creampuff you're trying to claim."

"Cut the bullshit, Meg," snarls Dean. "I recognized your skeezy stench the moment we rolled into town." His voice drops. "You okay, Cas?"

"I'm fine, De—" He's interrupted by Meg grabbing his hair and smashing his head against the wall again.

"Oops, sorry, out of luck, loverboy. Your angel seems to have a headache tonight."

The shotgun goes off with a roar, and Meg falls back, crying out as rock salt pellets riddle her host's torso. "That _stings_, you little shit!"

She flings up her host's hand, and Dean goes flying across the room. Instead of slamming against the wall, he twists, kicking off the wall and rolling to his knees. He fires off another burst from the shotgun, sending the demon spinning away from Castiel. "If you think that stings, you sleazy skankbucket, try a taste of this! _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio_—"

Meg rushes at Dean, catching him as he reloads and throwing him against the wall, this time pinning him in place with a curse. She hits him across the jaw and snatches the shotgun away, then punches him hard in the solar plexus, sending the air whooshing out of his lungs. "There you go, smart guy. You just wait there quietly and watch while I have my way with your little angel."

"_Infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica."_

Meg whirls around, coughing up small puffs of black smoke. "How the—where—?" Raising the shotgun to her host's shoulder, the demon fires off a blast at the ventilation shaft. The protective grill shatters, and the scent of electrical burning wafts into the room as the voice falls silent.

"_Ergo draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica, adjuramus te!" _

Meg shoots again, this time at the floor level cold air return vent, and the exorcism chant cuts off once more.

"_Cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque aeternae Perditionis venenum propinare!"_

The demon howls, and staggers to the wall where Dean is gasping for breath. Grabbing him by the hair, she shoves the shotgun barrel in his mouth. "I know you're there, Sam Winchester, I recognize your stupid voice! Give yourself up right now, or you're gonna find out how badly rock salt pellets can scramble your brother's brain."

At that moment, Sam comes rushing into the room, a blur of motion as he flings the contents of a bucket full in the demon's face. Meg chokes, in momentary shock as Sam snatches the shotgun and pulls Dean away from the wall, shoving him at Castiel. Sam turns and draws Ruby's knife, keeping his eyes on the demon while backing toward his brother and the angel.

Meg's host coughs up the last of the water. "Seriously?" it gasps. "That's not even holy water! Hate to tell you, Dorothy, but I'm not the Wicked Witch of the West. Not melting, see?"

"You may not be," Sam's voice reverberates with triumph, "but those are."

Meg whirls around. The angel-trap blood sigils are trickling rivulets of red down the wall, distorting and breaking the lines. She turns back just as Sam slices into his arm with Ruby's knife and sends his blood spraying onto the bloodiron cuffs around Castiel's wrists.

The cuffs fall apart with a dull clang, accompanied by a muffled whoosh of air, as if giant wings had just snapped open. Castiel shakes his coats off his left arm and advances on Meg's host, left hand held up with fingers spread wide. "_Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine."_

Sam's pre-recorded voice joins in from another location in the ventilation shaft. _"Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos."_

The demon screams in fury, a column of black smoke erupting from her host's mouth and swirling away through one of the broken windows. Her host falls to the ground, groaning.

Castiel stands in place, murmuring the last line of the exorcism. _"Ut inimicos sanctae Ecclesiae humiliare digneris, te rogamus, audi nos."_

Billy pushes himself to his feet, making a show of swaying in place. "Thank God for you guys!" he sobs. "Thank God you saved me! I thought I was a goner with that crazy bitch inside—"

Castiel makes a sharp gesture behind his back, and Ruby's knife flies out of Sam's hand into his own. With smooth, balletic grace, he strides up and buries the knife in Billy's heart.

Everyone in the room freezes in place, including Billy, his eyes wide and shocked as blood wells up in his mouth.

"Remember this," Castiel whispers. "Remember an angel's wrath as you burn in Hell." He withdraws the knife, and Billy tumbles to the floor, dead.

Several seconds pass in silence until Sam clears his throat. "Uh, Cas?"

Castiel turns to face him, his expression calm as always. "Yes, Sam?"

"I thought we exorcised Meg, um, successfully."

"You did. Excellent work, both of you."

"Yeah, thanks," Sam stammers. "But this guy—this host—wasn't he an innocent victim?"

Castiel's expression darkens. "He was far from innocent."

"So you decided to just…kill him?"

"Angels are agents of fate, Sam." Castiel lifts his chin, a faint fluttering sound vibrating near his shoulders, as if wings were settling back into place. "It was this man's fate to die." He looks down and tears another strip from his ruined shirt, carefully cleaning the blade of Ruby's knife before handing it back to Sam. "I'll dispose of the body. Wait for me in the next room; I don't much care for this one." With one last cursory glance around his former prison, the angel disappears along with Billy's body.

/-/-/

Dean paces the length of the adjacent office, counting in his head as he subconsciously opens and closes his fists. Twelve strides to the far wall, twelve strides back. _(Idiot!)_ He makes a ninety-degree turn and paces the breadth of the confined space: ten strides to the wall, ten strides back. _(Coulda been killed, or ra—) _

"Dean."

"What?" he snaps.

Sam holds up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Dude, calm down. I'm sure there's some explanation for his behavior. I mean, I wouldn't be a bit surprised if he had PTSD after what he's been through. Under the circumstances, you can't expect him to—you can't hold it against him."

Dean stops and stares at his brother. "What the hell are you talking about? Hold what against who?"

"Cas. Him killing that host guy—I can see it's upset you."

Dean huffs out a breath. "Uh, no, genius. That dude was real skeevy. I'm sure Cas killed him for a good reason."

"Yeah, maybe he did." Sam frowns, pushing his hair back from his eyes. "Uh, Dean, you think we were in time?" He wilts a little under his brother's incredulous glare. "No, I mean I know Cas is alive and all, but do you think we got here in time to stop Meg from—" he waves his hand uncomfortably.

"From what?"

"You're gonna make me say it, aren't you? Look, you saw what I saw. I've never seen Cas so…I mean, I've never seen him without his coats, except Jimmy that one time. And then his shirt: there's barely anything left of it, and his belt was unbuckled—" He stops as Dean whirls on him, green eyes bright with rage.

"You're asking the wrong person, Sam. If you're so curious as to whether Cas was raped, why don't you ask him?"

"I wasn't."

Both brothers startle at Castiel's sudden appearance. Sam flushes red up to his hairline, while Dean pales, his jaw tightening.

Castiel stands in the middle of the room, his hands hanging loosely in his usual awkward way. "To be precise, I wasn't raped if you define the term to mean the insertion of an object, usually the rapist's penis, into an orifice of my—"

"Yeah, yeah, we get it!" snaps Dean. "You don't need to go into detail."

Sam glares at Dean, then turns a sympathetic gaze on Castiel. "Listen, Cas, if you want to talk about it…"

Castiel shrugs. "Not really." His gaze sharpens. "What interests me is how you knew to break the bloodiron cuffs with your own blood."

Both Sam and Dean look uncomfortable. "Um, we didn't find out about your situation until this morning," Sam explains. "It took us a few hours to drive out here, so during that time, we brainstormed about what could possibly trap an angel—other than another angel, of course. There had to be blood sigils, but those would just hold you in one location. Since you hadn't called, we figured you had to be rendered powerless, which means—"

"Bloodiron is forged in Hell," Dean said in a tight voice. "Demon blood is used to make it, and only demon blood can break it."

Castiel turns a wondering gaze on Dean, who stares back for long moments before he drops his gaze to the floor.

Sam clears his throat. "Anyway, I know I went through detox, but we figured maybe there were enough traces left in me to be able to break bloodiron bindings." He smiles a bitter smile. "Something good ought to come out of Famine screwing around with me."

Castiel is still staring at Dean. "You risked your brother for my sake."

Dean kicks irritably at the floor. "Yeah. Woulda been nice if I didn't have to."

"Hey, I've got free will here, guys. I would've done it for you anyway, Cas."

"Thank you, Sam." Castiel looks up at Sam. "About the exorcism—I didn't know that you could throw your voice."

Sam grins. "I can't. Actually, that was Dean's idea as well. We stopped at a computer store and bought some blutooth speakers, then I recorded the exorcism on my computer and patched it through to the speakers. We figured that if it were demons that had you, they'd try to keep us from saying the exorcism ritual. So I hid the speakers in close proximity to the room you were in, and boom! Instant exorcism despite numerous attempts to wipe out the source."

Castiel's eyes are slightly glazed from the tech speak, but he nods graciously, anyway. "Very clever, Sam…and Dean."

"Guess somebody had to pick up the slack in the brains department, since you sure didn't!"

Sam looks briefly shocked, while Castiel stiffens and fixes his gaze on the far wall.

_The 'soldier getting dressed down' look again_, Dean thinks bitterly, and all due to him, of course. But he can't seem to stop what he's doing. If he knew what this feeling was—this raw, twisting snarl of emotions that sets his teeth on edge and the tiny hairs on his arms on end—he'd name it and be done with it. But he doesn't, so he isn't. Done with it. Done with anything.

"Uh." Sam interposes his giant self between Dean and Castiel in a hopeless attempt to curtail the skyrocketing tension in the room. "Guess we better go home now, before anything else happens. Guys?"

Dean holds up a hand without shifting his eyes from Castiel's grim stance. "Sam, go back to the car and wait for us there. I need a moment with Cas."

Sam grabs the upraised hand, using it to drag Dean a short distance away from Castiel. "Dude. Not a good idea."

"What's not a good idea, Sasquatch? Other than you laying on hands, which, I'm gonna be honest, is crossing the line."

"Crossing the line?" Sam hisses in a not-so-quiet whisper. "I'll tell you what's crossing the line! Hitting the angel, for one."

"I'm not gonna hit the angel."

"Oh yeah? From here, it looks like you got your smite on. And I have to tell you, whatever bug may be up your ass, it's not a good idea to smite someone who can smite back ten times as hard."

"I'm not gonna smite anyone. Except you, maybe, if you don't get your ass out to the car. Now."

Sam exhales a loud, angry breath, but Dean can tell he's already won. The "Do _not_ fuck with the older brother" tone always wins. Except for that one time. And that other one.

"Fine," Sam huffs and raises his voice so Castiel can hear. "I'll give you five minutes, but that's it. House rules: no pinching, biting, kicking, eye-gouging, nose-twisting, or hair-pulling. Cas, you and me are good at the moment, but I'm giving you fair warning: if you kill Dean, we're going to have problems, got it?"

Castiel lifts his gaze and looks at Sam as if he had just turned purple and sprouted two extra heads. "Why would I kill Dean?"

"Because he's capable of being the king dick to out-dick all dicks in Dickland, and when he's in the mood he's in right now, he'll make homicidal thoughts cross your mind more than once, trust me."

"Hey!" Dean gives his brother the one-finger salute. "Back to the car, bitch. And I don't want to see your mug for the next ten minutes."

"Seven."

"Eight, and that's final."

"I'm setting my watch now," Sam warns, and with one last worried glance at them, leaves the room.

Dean's got to give props to Sam for diffusing the tension somewhat (and he knows that was what Sam was aiming to do with his 'house rules' schtick, 'cause he may not be a college grad but he's not exactly _stupid_), but it just takes one look at Castiel, and all the twisty, snarly, raging feelings are back, roiling through his body until he can barely breathe.

Because what he's seeing is _wrong_, a twenty on a one-to-ten scale of wrongness, and that's saying a lot, especially coming from him. The typical crap in his life—wendigos, rugarus, ghouls—that would send the average civilian screaming for his Mommy isn't even a blip on the wrongness chart compared to the expanse of pale (_pristine_) skin exposed (_cover him up_) to view beneath the torn white shirt, with purplish bruises (_bitemarks!_) staining (_defiling_) the (_his!)_ angel.

"Damn it, Cas," and he gives himself points for the tight control of his voice, when all he wants to do is howl in outrage, "what did I tell you about going off on your own?"

Castiel narrows his eyes. "When?"

"When? When? All the fucking time, that's when! How many people do I gotta lose before you get it through your thick skull that we don't leave each other alone to confront evil shithead bastards! Didn't you learn anything when Ellen and Jo died?"

Castiel draws himself up, mouth tightening as he glares past Dean's left shoulder. "I apologized months ago for leaving them alone. There's nothing I can do to make further amends for their deaths."

"Fucking hell, Cas, I'm not blaming you for that again! I'm talking about you—you could've been the one that died when Lucifer trapped you in the fire circle. You could've died at Meg's hands back then! I gave you credit for having more sense than to run right back into the claws of that hellbitch first chance you got!"

"I didn't seek her out." Castiel's tone is defensive, although his posture relaxes slightly. "I didn't know who set the trap, only that the trap existed. I hoped to spring it before you and Sam became caught up in it."

Dean turns and paces away from Castiel, taking deep breaths, counting to ten, calling on every fiber of self-control John had ever instilled in him. His fingernails bite into his palms as he clenches his fists, but he figures he's finally calm enough to face Cas again. "See, that's your problem right there. You should've let me and Sam know. We would've gone with you to spring the trap, and none of this would've happened."

Castiel shakes his head. "I couldn't risk it. You are too valuable. I, on the other hand, am expendable."

That's _it._

Almost before he realizes it, Dean explodes into furious motion, grabbing the edges of Castiel's shirt and propelling him backwards until he slams against the wall. Dean curls his fingers into the torn material _(don't touch_), leaning in until they're almost nose-to-nose (_don't touch_), and snarls into Castiel's startled face. "Not expendable! _Not _expendable! Where the fuck do you get—how can you—what makes you—" And he's not making any sense, he _knows _he's not, but he can't seem to stop raging long enough to form a coherent sentence.

So he shouldn't be surprised when Castiel's eyes widen in confusion _(endless, eternal blue),_ and his mouth opens (_lips part_) as if to ask Dean what he thinks he's doing, and Dean doesn't want to hear it (_shut up!),_ wants to stop the words (_his mouth_) until he figures out what the hell is this feeling (_fury, frustration, don't touch!), _but the feeling is expanding, clamoring, roaring _(don't they dare touch, don't _anyone_ dare touch what is _mine!_)_, until his last scraps of sanity shred under the force of it, and his mouth crashes down on Castiel's.

This is no kiss—it's nothing like a kiss: too violent, too needy, so frenzied that Dean can barely feel Castiel's lips beneath his, doesn't know if he's responding and doesn't care, because all that matters in this one moment is that he finally stakes his claim (_mine!)_ and lays down the law _(you don't get to die!). _

The next moment, he's flying backward until he impacts the opposite wall with a force that drives all the air out of his lungs in a breathless _whoosh_. Yet there's no pain, and he vaguely wonders why as he struggles for air, plaster dust raining down from the ceiling to land in his and Castiel's hair. Yeah, Castiel is still only two inches from his face, and it isn't until he feels the angel's arms sliding out from behind his back that he realizes Castiel had cushioned the impact, made it enough to stun but not enough to break him.

Though why he bothered is the question, because the expression on Castiel's face is awfully close to "I will throw you back into Hell" mode, and his hands are now effortlessly pinning Dean's shoulders to the wall. It flashes across Dean's muddled thoughts that he's about to find out what a good old-fashioned angelic smiting feels like.

"You forget what I am," Castiel growls, and damn if that voice doesn't travel all the way down Dean's spine, making him shudder (_tremble_) in fear (_no, not exactly fear_). "I will not be toyed with."

Dean manages to suck a half-breath into his lungs. "Cas, I didn't mean to—" Didn't mean to what? Assault an angel of the Lord who had just been assaulted by a filthy bitch-freak demon? Because the last he knew, shoving your tongue into someone's mouth without prior permission pretty much fits the dictionary definition of assault, and…fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck!_ He takes back what he said about not being stupid, because it's pretty fucking obvious that he fell out of the proverbial Stupid tree, hitting every stupid branch on the way down, then got beaten with the stupid stick when he hit bottom. Nice job, Winchester, traumatizing an already traumatized assault victim.

"I'm not…traumatized. The experience with the demon wasn't pleasant, but it's over. What I don't understand is…" Castiel lifts his chin and narrows his eyes, searching Dean's gaze for a few heartbeats.

It takes everything Dean has to man up and meet that piercing, soul-searching stare. He can't even bring himself to complain about the mind-reading but instead, vaguely wishes Cas luck, because even he can't figure out what he's thinking at the moment. There's shame, of course, and apology, but also a churning mixture of incoherent urges (_and a small, unsuccessfully repressed whisper of 'mine'_).

Castiel pulls back suddenly, his eyes widening, and…fuck, Dean's really done it now. He closes his eyes, because he doesn't want to see the moment when Cas decides smiting is the only solution to this fucked-up situation. Somewhere in the deep recesses of Dean's brain, a tiny voice of rationality begs to know just when he acquired the suicidal urge to lay claim to an angel. Because although 'Deathwishes R Us' is the Winchester family motto, at this particular moment, he really doesn't want to die.

In fact, for the first time in weeks, definitely for the first time since Famine rode into that doomed town, Dean feels alive. More than alive—he feels hyperalive, his skin prickling as if tendrils of electricity are racing up and down his arms, the fine hairs on his body standing on end, and, oh yeah…that. Maybe not the best time for it (_definitely not the best time), _but it's been so damn long since anything stirred down there that he can't pull his thoughts together enough to wish it away.

"Cas," he whispers, but Castiel just pushes him back against the wall, and (_oh, God_) presses the length of his body against Dean's, as if to hold him in place.

"You need to understand," he growls (_and damn, where did the angel learn to sound so seductive?),_ "exactly what you're asking for. I may not be what I once was, but I'm still the one who pulled you from Perdition."

"I know, Cas, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—" Dean is shoved harder against the wall. (_Okay, got the message; stopping with the babbling now.)_

"You make me feel things…you make me understand what it means to covet. But I have no experience of _having_. If you teach me that—if you mean for us to travel that road together, there will be no turning back. Do you understand?"

"Yeah," and oh, God, he has no dignity left, because his knees weaken, and he's pleading these broken little pleas, like _"Cas"_ and _"please"_ and _"need you,"_ and if Cas weren't holding him up, he'd be sprawled in a pathetic little heap on the floor.

But Cas _is _holding him up, and his mouth is so close, his breath gusting warm against Dean's lips, and he's moving, a slow, seductive roll of his pelvis against Dean's, (and oh, God, is that…is he _hard?)._ Suddenly it wells up in him, this tidal wave of feeling (_feeling Cas hard against his own hardness_), and he wants, no, he has (_mine!),_ and the having is so good, so sweet, (_stroking him in the perfect way_), and it's rapture and intoxication, and the world shivers, then turns inside-_out_—

And he's clinging to Cas's shoulders now, hips jerking and stuttering as he cries out in helpless ecstasy, (_the angel whispering, 'Yes, Dean…yes', in his hair_).

He comes down slowly, feeling those arms holding him with both gentleness and strength, provoking a vague memory of an earlier time (_but it was light, wasn't it? And he was light but tinged with darkness and blood, and Castiel carried him, held him close until they were both bright and shining, and healed and safe_), and although he's not really sure what it means, he still rests his head against his angel's, safe in his arms (_once more_).

Seconds tick by, and his life slowly comes back into focus: Cas's warm breath against his cheek, the cool air of the room, and the dampness—

"Dude!" he pulls back abruptly from Castiel, knocking the back of his head against the wall. "Did I just—?"

"Yes."

"In my jeans?"

"Yes."

Dean narrows his eyes at the touch of smugness in the angel's voice. "But you didn't—"

"I can wait."

"Yeah, no." And he's reaching for the front of Cas's trousers, because damn it, he's not the type of guy who leaves his partners in the lurch (_and this has nothing to do at all with the fact that he wants to touch Cas, to know him, to feel the lines of_—)

Castiel steps back, gently pushing Dean's hand away. "I can wait. Sam is approximately thirty seconds away from bursting back into this room."

"Oh, shit, Sam!" Dean didn't think he would ever forget the existence of his little brother, but the past few minutes with Cas—well, there's only one thing he can say. "Listen, since we only have like twenty seconds ETA Emo-Ginormotron, followed by a seven hour drive back to Bobby's, all three of us singing 'The Wheels on the Bus' or some shit like that, I'm pinning you down now for an appointment. Right after everything gets settled at Bobby's, and Sasquatch goes down for a nap, it's you and me out by the Impala. We're gonna take a drive, 'cause I know a place."

Castiel wrinkles his brow. "Another drive?" he protests, then curves his lips in a slow smile.

"Yeah, smartass, another drive! Now stop yanking my chain, before I—"

"Dean!" Sam knocks the door open. "Are you guys—is everything okay?"

"Yeah." Dean nonchalantly tugs his jacket closed. "Everything's cool. Why wouldn't it be?" He strides past his little brother, Castiel falling into step behind him, as usual.

"Well, you didn't come out to the car, and I started to think— Hey, guys, wait up!"

They finally make it out to the Impala, and Castiel slides easily into the backseat. Dean tugs uncomfortably at his jeans as Sam takes shotgun. As Dean starts digging for his AC/DC tape, Sam frowns, sniffs, then gets a puzzled look on his face, quickly replaced with a look of horrified concern. He presses an elbow into Dean's side and cuts a significant glance toward the back seat. "Dude," he whispers. "Is he…?"

"He's fine, Sam. He's fine, I'm fine, you're fine, and it's a great night for a drive. So shut your cakehole and pop in the tape." Dean revs his baby as Sam makes Bitchface #16 but does as told.

And yeah, if Dean were truly a conscientious brother, he'd sit Sam down and explain about him and Cas…

…nah.

Grinning into the rearview mirror, he's pleased to see Cas's eyes tilt upward in his version of an answering smile. Dean revs his baby one more time and sends them roaring off into the night.

_/-/-/_

_The End_

_/-/-/_

**(4-15-10)** Thank you all for following this story to its end; I appreciate it! Now for some additional notes:

Thanks and acknowledgments go to the Supernatural Wiki, contributor RaeSofSunshine, for the exorcism rite.

Also, just as an aside, I'd like to say that I hadn't seen the previews for this coming week's episode 5x18 before I'd written the ending scene between Dean and Cas about 3 weeks ago. Yes, I write piecemeal, usually writing the final scene right after the first chapter; I'm weird that way. Anyway, when I saw the pivotal Dean/Cas scene in the upcoming show, I had a lot of squee to suppress. ^__^

Finally, this story has ended up landing in the "Thousand Small Cruelties" universe. It was subtext in the back of my mind, but this chapter pulled the subtext into text (Dean and Cas talking about Ellen and Jo's deaths), so I thought I'd explain that odd, non-canonical reference.

Thanks again; it's been a real pleasure interacting with all of you!


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